


Illness, Exhaustion

by bgharison



Series: Tenacious Men [6]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode 10.22 coda, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pancakes, Post-Canon Fix-It, but not a Catherine-bashing fix-it, definitely not McRoll, radiation poisoning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgharison/pseuds/bgharison
Summary: "That’s why I had to leave . . . Danny had already worried himself to the point of making up reasons to move in, stay close, keep an eye on me.  I couldn’t do this to him, not now, not after . . . everything.  He can’t compartmentalize, this would have been too much for him to live with."
Relationships: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams
Series: Tenacious Men [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1181417
Comments: 46
Kudos: 190





	1. Aloha

**Author's Note:**

> This iteration of what could have prompted Steve to leave Danny hurting on the beach, and what could follow, fit nicely into the series started during the 2018 NaNoWriMo, Tenacious Men.
> 
> Part of a series of mostly unrelated shorts based on a Philip Roth quote in a New York Times interview:
> 
> "The drama issues from the assailability of vital, tenacious men with their share of peculiarities who are neither mired in weakness nor made of stone and who, almost inevitably, are bowed by blurred moral vision, real and imaginary culpability, conflicting allegiances, urgent desires, uncontrollable longings, unworkable love, the culprit passion, the erotic trance, rage, self-division, betrayal, drastic loss, vestiges of innocence, fits of bitterness, lunatic entanglements, consequential misjudgment, understanding overwhelmed, protracted pain, false accusation, unremitting strife, illness, exhaustion, estrangement, derangement, aging, dying and, repeatedly, inescapable harm, the rude touch of the terrible surprise — unshrinking men stunned by the life one is defenseless against, including especially history: the unforeseen that is constantly recurring as the current moment."

He was surprised to see Catherine standing in the aisle of the plane.

“Hey, sailor.”

Her smile was gentle and wry, her eyes twinkling. Time, distance, and the first couple of awkward meetings had given way to their united efforts to avenge Joe’s death. Text messages had resumed, gradually, after that -- checking in, checking up -- becoming more common, more comfortable, until eventually Steve found himself confiding in Cath as the most unlikely of confidants.

Meaning, she knew how he felt about Danny.

And she’d insisted that Danny returned those feelings . . . that she’d suspected it, even as she’d found it in herself to walk away.

“I would have said yes,” she’d said, and then later explained . . . “I would have said yes. And we would have broken each other’s hearts, and Danny’s.”

He was still reeling over the emotional good-byes, over leaving Danny on the beach; his gut still churning over the what-ifs and almosts. It took his brain a minute to compute.

“It was you, with the cipher.”

“Well, yeah, but . . . you also didn’t think I’d let you go alone, did you?”

She sat down, slipped her hand into his, and gave it a gentle squeeze. His phone pinged, and he glanced at it, then smiled.

“Danny?” she guessed.

“Yeah. I think maybe he’s started to forgive me for leaving.”

“So . . . you didn’t tell him?”

Steve took a deep breath, then shook his head. “I came close. Really close. He was . . . God, he was devastated, Cath.”

She squeezed his hand again. “I told you . . . hell, Steve, it was obvious to Daiyu Mei. She went after Danny as leverage. You’re each other’s . . . everything.”

Steve fell silent.

“Maybe you should have told him,” Catherine said. She hesitated. “You still could. You could text him right now, before we take off. Give him more details later.”

He thought about it a moment, then shook his head. He responded with a quick text instead.

_ >>Missed you before I got out of the driveway, Danno. _

“No,” he said, turning to Cath. “I’ll tell him when I’m on the other side of this. Danny, he -- I can’t put this uncertainty on him. He almost worried himself into an early grave, after the transplant . . . I regretted telling him about the radiation poisoning to begin with.”

“It wasn’t like you could hide the symptoms indefinitely. He’s a detective, Steve -- a good one.”

“I know. That’s why I had to leave . . . he’d already worried himself to the point of making up reasons to move in, stay close, keep an eye on me. I couldn’t do this to him, not now, not after . . . everything. He can’t compartmentalize, this would have been too much for him to live with. So.” He forced a smile. “I go, get this dealt with, and when I’m better, I go back. Whole, healthy, and able to offer him something more than sitting beside a hospital bed, or hanging out at my house watching me puke and lose my hair.”

“Steve . . . “

“You did the research for me, this is the best option. My best shot. Right? So I go to the Naval hospital in Yokosuka, I fight this thing, I go home to Danny and the rest of the team. You said they have the best research, treatment and success rate, of all the Navy bases.”

“They do, Steve. After Hiroshima, the Navy has dedicated decades of research to radiation induced cancer. Yokosuka has the best survival rate for leukemia on the planet. There’s no doubt -- this is your best shot.”

*****  
  
  
  


TBC


	2. Ma’i  (Illness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He missed Hawaii, he missed the team, he missed Eddie . . . and he missed Danny, like a hole in his heart that wouldn’t close. 

Steve limped from the parking lot into the quiet oncology wing of the Naval Hospital. He could remember a time when he would have shrugged off a brief, if intense, procedure like a bone marrow biopsy like he shrugged off a bullet graze or knife wound.

But that was just the point, wasn’t it?

He just couldn’t shrug things off like he used to. Sure, some of it was aging -- neither of them wanted to admit it, but Danny had slowed down just a bit, too. But then the fatigue had settled in bone deep, and just never went away. And then there had been the nosebleeds. And the nightsweats.

And the pacing the floor -- most of which, yeah, was his racing mind, but some of which was the inexorable progression of the symptoms he was trying so desperately to ignore.

“You’ve used up more than your share of nine lives, Commander,” his physician had explained. “The transplant would have put most men on their ass in medical retirement. You fought back from that, but the radiation poisoning . . . we discussed the possible long-term effects.”

Steve had nodded, resignation settling into the pit of his stomach. 

“Your bloodwork doesn’t look promising.” Military doctors rarely tried to sugarcoat anything, and Steve appreciated it. “This white blood cell count . . . it indicates leukemia. You need to see an oncologist. And soon.”

The rest of what the doctor had said was drowned out in a rush of white noise. Thankfully, they caught a case just as he was getting back to the palace, and he was able to compartmentalize until the middle of the night. He’d paced the floor then, texting furiously with Catherine. It was mid-afternoon in her time-zone, though they carefully avoided discussing her location. By morning, he’d settled on where he would go for treatment.

And then, Daiyu Mei had taken Danny. He’d run through the stages of grief and dug in hard to bargaining. He was the one with a potentially terminal disease; Danny was the one with children. God needed to take him -- not Danny. Never Danny.

Then he’d managed to get Danny back, and that settled it. If Danny lived, he wanted to live, too. And he hadn’t lied to Danny. While the cancer cells were overwhelming his body, his toxic past was overwhelming his mind. Everything he said to Danny was true. He had to get away, find some peace. He just hadn’t mentioned that it would be in a hospital halfway around the world.

“Good morning, Commander,” the receptionist said, as he approached the desk. “Have a seat. Dr. Patterson will be right with you.”

Steve sat down gingerly on one of the chairs in the sparsely decorated waiting room. His hip throbbed. He thought back to Danny’s bone marrow donation; the anxious, sleepless nights that followed, waiting to see if the treatment worked for Charlie. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the doctor opening the door to the waiting room. “Commander McGarrett. Come on back, let’s talk about our plan of attack.”

Steve stood, more slowly and stiffly than he cared to admit, and followed the doctor’s short but determined stride down the hall to her office. He eased himself down, once again, into a chair facing the cheerfully cluttered desk. He recognized his open chart.

“I’m glad you came when you did,” Dr. Patterson started. She slid a pair of silver-rimmed reading glass on as she plucked a page of bloodwork results from his chart. “You are in the accelerated phase of myelogenous leukemia. You’ve probably been in the chronic stage for months -- at least.”

“Accelerated?” Steve asked, frowning.

“Yes, and yes, it’s reason for concern and immediate treatment. Understand, though, that in the numbers game we’re playing, you’re just a few percentage points past chronic. And you’re nowhere near the truly alarming stage, the blastic phase.”

“So, the prognosis . . .”

“Is very good, though with the liver transplant and the general abuse of your body, you’re likely to encounter more pronounced symptoms during treatment, and a slower recovery. But you’ll get there. Not back to your SEAL days, but back to good health for a typical man your age.”

Steve was silent, trying to process.

“Look . . . I’ve read your medical history, and I’ve read between the lines. You are not, and never have been, a typical man. No one in teams could be defined as typical. I’m going to be blunt -- physically, those days are over for you. Mentally? That’s where you have some control. I’m going to make counseling mandatory as part of your treatment.”

Steve nodded. The doctor looked up in surprise, her dark bobbed hair swishing with the movement.

“I expected you to put up a fight about the counseling.”

“There was a time when I would have,” Steve said. “Not now.”

“Good. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the studies that have linked traumatic events to immune system damage. And ultimately, cancer is an immune system crisis. That’s why, in addition to chemotherapy, we’re going to use immunotherapy. Kill the cancer cells, strengthen the healthy cells.”

Steve felt a sense of familiarity. Kill the bad thing, keep the good thing strong. “How soon can we start?”

“Get a good night’s rest, and I suggest you don’t eat anything after midnight.”

* * *

He stood in front of the mirror and took a deep breath, then raised the clippers to his head. The man staring back at him was a bit thinner, a bit pale. He let the recent months play back in his mind, reviewing, marking progression . . . 

He’d made it through the first round chemo with flying colors. A little nausea, some aches and pains -- nothing he couldn’t handle with peppermint and Motrin. Catherine had stayed for a few days, but when she was asked to report to an undisclosed location, Steve had sent her on her way, full of confidence -- and secret relief. The first few sessions of counseling were as brutal as the chemo was easy. He’d gently dismissed her offers of dinner, movies, cards, company . . . he had felt as if he was one raw, open nerve. It was easy enough to claim fatigue and nausea, and the need to turn in early -- which he did, curled up alone in the bedroom of an officer’s quarters they’d generously provided for him, texting or talking to Danny for hours on end.

“So, still in Japan?” Danny had asked, sounding confused, and maybe a little aggravated. “I thought you were going to . . . you know, travel around. See what the world looked like when you weren’t looking through the scope of a gun.”

“Yeah, I was, but . . . I’m finding a lot of peace here, Danny.” Steve found that he could live with telling Danny things that were true. And it was. Everything about Japan was calming . . . serene. For some reason, it was even helping him sort out his complicated feelings about Doris. It was in Japan, after all, that he’d discovered his mother, alive two decades after her funeral.

“Ah. Who’d have thought -- Steve McGarrett, finding his zen. Hey, you will not believe -- not believe, I tell you -- what Adam and Quinn turned up on a case today . . .”

By the time he finished the second round, both the chemo and the counseling had settled into a miserable medium. He felt like crap in body and soul. Nauseated -- but not enough to gain any relief by throwing up. Achy -- to the point that Motrin only helped half way. Grieving -- no longer sharp and technicolored, but the dull, constant grayness of acknowledging what too much loss, too much trauma had done to his mind and soul. He missed Hawaii, he missed the team, he missed Eddie . . . and he missed Danny, like a hole in his heart that wouldn’t close. 

Danny had picked up on it immediately, of course.

“I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me,” he’d said quietly. “I know you said you needed to do this alone, and I’m trying to respect that. I was only half teasing when I said ‘don’t make me come after you’, you know that. Just . . . don’t go where I can’t follow. Can you promise me that much?”

Steve had nodded, clenching the phone in his hand.

“You’re gonna have to use your words, babe,” Danny had said, chuckling.

“Yeah. Yeah, Danny. I promise.”

The next morning, a not insignificant amount of hair clung dark against the white of the towel that he’d used to roughly dry off after his shower. It had happened once before, the random hair loss, courtesy of the radiation poisoning. He’d been in quarantine with Danny, Junior, and Tani, only one of whom would have hesitated to pounce on him with questions if they caught notice. He’d solved it by buzzing his hair short, teasing Danny with the clippers. It had grown back in, thicker and darker than ever.

He stood now, with enough time before his appointment for round three to go ahead and repeat the process of proactively ridding himself of the hair that was, apparently, just going to end up clogging the drain. He thumbed on the clippers and carefully guided them over his head, and tried to convince himself that he’d made the right decision to go this alone. 

* * *

Steve sat in the chair, his mind half drifting, watching as another IV bag of poison dripped into his vein. The sudoku puzzle book sat, unopened, on the roll up table next to the recliner; the remote control for the TV untouched.

“How are you feeling, Commander?” Dr. Patterson asked softly. She propped a hip against the drawer of the cabinet in the quiet treatment room. “You know, when I ask about your pain and energy levels before I start the IV, you’re supposed to answer honestly. We could have given you another week before this round.”

Steve forced a smile. “I’m fine. Really, I think I’m more worn out from digging up all the crap in counseling.”

“And you’re still here alone?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I have the Kindle unlimited plan, you know -- finally time to read all of the best sellers I’ve missed the last couple of decades.”

The IV beeped its completion. 

“You have the number to call, twenty-four seven, if the side effects become too uncomfortable. I expect you to use it. This isn’t a mission -- you don’t get any extra points for sucking up the pain. Got it?” Her deft hands, cool against his already overheated skin, slipped the IV catheter out, her thumb pressing firmly against the exit point.

“Got it, Dr. Patterson,” he said, aiming for his most carefree smile, which usually secured his early release from anything medical.

She shook her head, unimpressed. “Please. It’s been weeks, and it will be weeks more. Call me Chloe.”

“Fine, Chloe -- and I’m Steve, not Commander.”

“Fair enough,” she said, grinning at him. “Rest. Fluids. Piggy back Motrin and Tylenol. And you call the minute you feel like you’re getting in over your head.”

*****

_ “The only prettier sunset I’ve seen is my sunset in Montana,” Joe said. Their horses nibbled idly at the grass. _

_ “I think we can call it a tie,” Steve said. “Even Danny has to admit, Hawaiian sunsets are a thing of beauty. Right, Danno?” He turned to look back at his partner. _

_ A third horse was behind them, riderless. He felt the cold grip of despair deep in his gut. _

_ “Danny?!? Joe, where’s Danny -- he was right -- he was with us, he was right there . . . “ He pulled the reins, turning his horse, eyes scanning frantically. _

_ “He was,” Joe said. “He was right there. Always, right there, even when everyone left. I told you not to wait too long. But you did. You always do.” _

_ “DANNY!!” Steve called out, frantic. _

_ “Danny. Your mom. Your dad. Freddie,” Joe listed off their names. “Catherine left you . . . probably what kept her alive. Good thing she didn’t say yes, hunh.” _

_ “Danny . . . “ _

He couldn’t breathe.  _ Panic, _ he thought, blinking awake in the dark of his room.  _ You know what to do; combat breathing, you’ve done it a million times. _

In four, hold, out four, repeat. Despite his efforts, his breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. A violent wave of nausea had him flailing at the sweat-soaked bedsheets and stumbling to the bathroom. The tile felt freezing cold under his feet as the room tilted alarmingly. Falling to his knees in front of the toilet, he leaned over as his stomach seized and heaved, already empty from the first, predictable bout of vomiting that had thankfully fallen between his conversation with Danny and his fitful sleep. 

“Come on, gimme a break,” he mumbled. “‘S’nothing left.”

His stomach cramped again, and he instinctively wrapped his arm around his ribcage, the slight pressure exploding his senses with pain. His stomach felt bloated, his belly strangely hard. His knees gave way as he tried to stand.

His vision graying at the edges, he crawled to his nightstand. With shaking fingers, he grabbed at his phone and the card tucked underneath it. It took three attempts, but he finally managed to enter the correct number and hit send.

“Yokosuka Naval Oncology call service.” The voice sounded distant. “With whom am I speaking?”

His teeth were chattering together as chills shook his body. “C-Commander Steve McG-Garrett.”

“Yes, sir, are you having an emergency?”

“I think -- I don’t know what’s --” He shook his head in an effort to clear the tunnel vision and the roaring in his ears. The voice sounded further and further away, muffled. His body was being pulled, folding in on itself.

He wondered how he’d managed to get from his base apartment to the surf that had wiped him out and pulled him under . . . and then darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third and (probably) final chapter should be posted more promptly than the second. :-)


	3. Pauua (Exhaustion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, wait.” Steve tugged at his hand. “I -- Danny, I can explain, I just --” He stopped, winning the battle to get and keep his eyes open and focused. He looked up at Danny in amazement. “I can’t believe you came all this way.”

Pauua (Exhaustion)

Pounding. Insistent. Get the door. No -- wait. Hide the cypher. 

There’s a back-up behind the breadbox. Not inside it, not anymore. Gracie. Nahale. Charlie. Grenades in the glovebox. Danny’s going to be pissed.

Hands, touching him. Video cameras and a rusted machete. No.

Voices -- English, but not American. His stomach is seizing again, his back arching in pain, and then he’s folding in on himself. The voices are saying things, but he can’t make sense of it. He’s falling again . . . or he’s being lifted, maybe, carried by a current. 

He’s overwhelmed, not by fear, but by an image of sun-kissed golden hair and with it, an all-encompassing sense of regret.

*****

He was aware of a faint, steady beep. He tried, and failed, to open his eyes, but he could sense that he was no longer in the dark. He tried to speak, but didn’t recognize the raspy sound that forced its way through his parched throat and chapped lips.

Something pressed against his mouth, and he startled, until a chip of ice slipped past his lips. There was the sound of someone mumbling, familiarly fond and exasperated, and then more ice, and then he was pulled under again.

*****

“I guess I thought he was meditating in a hut on the side of some mountain, outside a monastery or something,” Danny said, shrugging. “Shoulda known better -- cell signal was too strong and predictable for that.”

Dr. Patterson laughed. “Well, we’re not a monastery, as you can see. But he has been going for counseling. Therapy, I guess, is a more accurate description. We have truly excellent mental health practitioners here; most specialize in PTSD and delayed trauma response.”

Danny nodded and sipped the coffee he’d gratefully accepted from one of the nurses. “I was pissed, honestly. That he felt like he needed to leave Hawaii. I mean, Pearl Hickam is there, and Tripler . . . and his friends, his ohana. I didn’t understand why he thought he had to leave -- why he practically bolted. It was out of character for him, you know? But I think I get it now. Everyone on Oahu knows Steve as the head of Five-O; indestructible, in charge . . . six feet tall and bulletproof.”

“And to us, he’s a sailor with an amazing service record, profoundly impacted physically, mentally, and emotionally by decades of trauma, sacrifice, and loss.” She paused, glancing around, then back at Danny. “You do realize,” she said, her voice low, “that what you know from the last ten years is the tip of the iceberg. Most of what he did in the Navy won’t be declassified in our lifetime.”

“I know . . . but I forget,” Danny said. 

“Hey, I didn’t say that to put a guilt trip on you. He kept you listed as his emergency contact and medical proxy. He obviously thinks a great deal of you.” 

Danny humphed. “Yeah, enough to leave me completely uninformed and scared shitless. But thank you, for calling, and catching me up. I appreciate it, Dr. Patterson.”

“Please, it’s Chloe. If you plan to stay --”

“Yeah, I’m staying,” Danny said firmly.

“Then we’ll see more of each other over the next few weeks. I’ll let you get back to him. Let the nurses know when he wakes up; they’ll come get me.”

*****

Danny resumed his post by Steve’s bed. In contrast to the unforgiving plastic chairs at Tripler, the chairs here were soft and supportive. The room could have been any comfortably appointed hotel room, save for the IV and vitals arrays. All of the righteous indignation that Danny had worked up on the long flight had dissipated, once he met with Dr. Patterson -- Chloe, he reminded himself -- and found himself in Steve’s room, surrounded by the soft plum and gray decor. There was nothing  _ indifferent _ about this place, nor the staff he’d met so far. He wondered if they really let themselves get as attached to the patients as their openness and kindness to him indicated. If so, he wondered how they managed to handle the ones that didn’t make it.

He shook the thought off quickly. Steve wasn’t going to be one of those patients. They hadn’t told him to call Mary. If Mary wasn’t being called, it was going to be okay. He had to keep reminding himself of that, as he watched the slow rise and fall of Steve’s chest. He’d seen Steve in enough hospital beds to be able to tell, even beneath the blankets, that he’d lost weight. He’d regained a bit of color since Danny’s first, panicked glance -- now he was merely pale, an improvement over the positively gray cast to his skin earlier. 

“Steven, you nincompoop,” Danny said, taking Steve’s entirely too cold hand in his. “You had better have a damn good explanation for putting me through this hell.”

“‘pologize,” Steve muttered. His hand twitched, then tightened around Danny’s, in a parody of his usual crushing grip. “A’ways callin’ me . . . ninco’poop. ‘S’not nice, Danno.”

Danny’s shoulders sagged in relief, and he dropped his head down to rest on their intertwined fingers. He felt Steve weakly squeeze his hand again, and he held on tight -- too tight, he realized, as Steve offered up a sound between a grunt and a squeak.

“Sorry,” he said, loosening his grip and lifting his head. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake --”

“No, wait.” Steve tugged at his hand. “I -- Danny, I can explain, I just --” He stopped, winning the battle to get and keep his eyes open and focused. He looked up at Danny in amazement. “I can’t believe you came all this way.”

“Yeah, well, I told you not to make me come after you . . . that’s never an empty threat with me, you know.”

“I know.” Steve closed his eyes, his head dropping down. “I’m sorry, Danny, I thought . . .”

“Hey, hey, whoa. It’s okay, Steve. I’ll save my rant and give it to you when you’ve got some color back, okay?” Danny pressed the call button for the nurse. There were so many things he wanted to say, wanted to ask, he felt like he was going to be overwhelmed with everything at once . . . but he knew that this, too, needed to be on Steve’s terms. God knew nothing else had been, lately . . . if ever.

The next hour flew by in a blur of poking and prodding. Steve seemed far too compliant and passive for Danny’s liking. It was unnerving. Even after the liver transplant, Steve had been antsy, arguing for more laps around the floor, more protein; hell, he’d even nagged at the doctor for some light dumbbells to do bicep curls. 

“I need to draw some blood,” a nurse said, smiling at them as she quietly slipped into the room, pushing a small cart. “And looks like you’re due for another bag of fluids. Dr. Patterson will be here in just a few minutes,” she said when she finished, deftly reversing all of her movements and maneuvering around Danny and out the door.

Steve fidgeted with the neck of his hospital gown, attempting to re-tie it without tangling the IV line. When Danny couldn’t take it anymore, he stood up, batted Steve’s hands away, and tied the strings. He rested his hand on the back of Steve’s neck, squeezing gently.

“What. The hell. Were you thinking?” he said. The words were familiar, but his hands were still, and his tone more fond than frustrated.

Steve tried to put his still-fuzzy thoughts in a semblance of order.

“I’m sick,” he started.

“So I gathered.”

“It’s leukemia. From the radiation.”

“I’ve been told.”

Steve rubbed at his eyes, glancing around the hospital room. “I’m not sure what I’m doing here, though. I remember getting sick. Sicker than usual,” he amended.

“That’s because the chemo -- chemotherapy, Steven, what the actual fuck -- killed off every bit of the good bacteria in your entire intestinal tract, and the puking and shitting just about wiped you out along with it,” Danny said. “You should have changed your contact information and HIPAA forms since you didn’t want to fill me in on this, your life-altering decision.”

“I -- I wanted to tell you . . . I knew, before Daiyu Mei. And then, you were . . . she -- I almost lost you, Danny.”

“What’s one thing got to do with the other?”

Steve was silent for a long moment. “I had already planned to come here, for treatment. I didn’t decide for sure not to tell you, until after . . . after that. After Daiyu Mei. But I didn’t change you as my emergency contact, because . . . if things did go sideways, like, really sideways . . . I wanted to have the chance to tell you, face to face, why I left. It was important to me that you know; that you explain it to the team. To -- to Grace and Charlie. That I wasn’t . . . abandoning the team, that I just wanted -- needed -- to do this, without being a burden.”

Danny nodded slowly.

“You understand?”

“Oh, I understand. I understand that you’re a self-sacrificing nincompoop. But I’m glad to know you wouldn’t have deliberately shaken off your mortal coil and left me with the impression that a decade of friendship wasn’t worth sticking around for. I mean, it might have come to that, you know; you kicking it without giving me a chance to say goodbye -- and not just me, Steve. My children. Hunh? You think of that?”

Steve winced. “Thought you were going to save the rant,” he muttered.

“I’m keeping my voice down and censoring a plethora of fuck-yous; it’s the best I can do.”

Steve fell silent, his eyes drifting to half-mast. He canted his head toward Danny.

“I can’t believe you came all this way,” he said. Again. “Hey. Danny. You -- you know I love you, right? You’re my Danno.” He fumbled his hand, uncoordinated, reaching for Danny’s.

“Yeah, babe,” Danny said. His anger dissipated again, as he looked into Steve’s eyes, glassy between pale, sunken cheeks and close-buzzed hair. He took Steve’s hand in both of his. “Hey, just . . . just rest, okay? I’ll be right here.”

“‘Kay,” Steve mumbled, already half asleep.

Danny chewed on his lower lip, replaying Tani’s words to him as she’d driven like a bat out of hell to get him to the airport to catch the next -- and only -- available flight.

_ “So help me, Danny Williams, if you do not . . . you didn’t see his face, Danny, when you didn’t come back in the house with him. And there’s -- look. Just stop, okay? Stop fighting this . . . this thing that you and Steve have. Hunh? What if something -- what if -- you know what, no. I’m not gonna go there. Because he’s -- he’s Steve, okay, and you’re Danny, and . . . God. If Junior and I have to come over there and -- and lock the two of you in a -- in a closet, or -- okay, bad analogy, because maybe, I dunno, maybe the whole problem is that both of you are in the closet or -- what I’m saying is, Junior and I, we can only hope to have the kind of amazing relationship that you and Steve already have and . . . God, what an absolute fucking waste if you throw it away without enjoying all of it. Like, the one part of it that you -- or maybe you have, but -- none of my business, but -- I’m saying. You and Steve, you’re like, relationship goals, you know? And you’re both stupid, and it’s why none of your relationships with women work. It feels like both of you have just barely cheated death, and . . . it scares us, okay? It scares me. I don’t know how many chances we get, and you. You and Steve, you’ve cut it close. And you can’t blow this, Danny.” _

_ She’d fallen silent, as he’d watched her, for once speechless himself. And then she’d smirked, turned her head to look at him, eyes nowhere on the road, still driving expertly. He remembered thinking how Steve had that uncanny ability, and then her smirk was turning into that brilliant megawatt smile. _

_ “You can’t blow this, Danny,” she’d said, and he should have seen it coming, the wicked glint in her eye. “But, you can blow Steve!” she’d finished, triumphantly. _

And the problem was, Danny thought, that it hadn’t sounded like a bad idea, at the time. And now that he was here, sitting next to Steve, looking as close to death as he’d ever seen him -- and that was saying something, all the shit they’d pulled -- and he was pretty sure he wasn’t just scared of losing Steve; he was terrified that he’d lost his chance to . . . follow Tani’s instructions.

*****

Steve was underwater again, but this time, it was warm and gentle. He felt weightless as the gentle current caressed his body. The unrelenting, bone-deep ache was gone. He wondered, briefly, if he was dead, and decided it wasn’t so terrible, only -- there was something he’d left unfinished. He frowned, trying to remember.

_ Danny. _

“Yeah, I’m here,” a voice came back to him. Danny’s voice. He struggled to open his eyes.

“Hey,” Danny said. His blue eyes were crinkled in a smile. He’d changed his shirt, shaved. Steve could smell the familiar citrus and cedarwood aftershave. Danny always smelled so good.

“Thanks,” Danny chuckled. 

Steve rubbed a hand over his face, embarrassed, but Danny was still grinning, and it was infectious. He found himself smiling back. Steve felt Danny’s hand on his again, squeezing gently, and it felt different somehow. The moment was broken when the door opened.

“Commander Steve,” Dr. Patterson said. If she noticed their joined hands, she was nonplussed by it, and Steve couldn't think of a reason to let go. 

“Doctor Chloe,” Steve said. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Good?” He was feeling damn good, come to think of it. “Did you give . . .” he raised an eyebrow at the IV hanging above his head. The noticeable absence of pain and slight euphoria was familiar, in a detached sort of way. 

“Yes,” she said, laughing softly. “Some morphine. As I’ve said -- repeatedly -- there’s no bonus for suffering. And since you won’t be staying alone, you can safely have something stronger as an outpatient as well.”

Steve glanced up at Danny, who nodded. Steve blinked, slow to comprehend. Danny had not only showed up, he was planning to stay? 

“Danny, you can’t, the team --”

“Is fine. So, when are you springing him out of here?”

“As long as he’s not driving --”

“Ha!” Danny crowed.

“-- he is free to go now. I’ve already processed the discharge papers and care instructions.” She handed a packet to Danny, and placed a small bag at the foot of the bed. “Your personal items are in the bag, and your clothes . . . well, they went into the incinerator.” 

Steve grimaced. “Do I even want to know?” He had vague, fleeting memories of miserable retching, of his stomach cramping . . .

“You really don’t,” Dr. Patterson answered. “Listen, Steve . . . you’re going to be just fine, but I’m insisting on a three week recovery period before we even discuss scheduling your final round of chemo. We need to rebuild your immune system and see an increase in your red blood cell count -- you’re very anemic. You need to put a minimum of five pounds back on, though we’d prefer closer to ten. The chemo is working; that’s the great news. But, in the process, it’s taking a toll. It destroyed the healthy bacteria in your digestive system -- much like an antibiotic can do, which is why some people get nausea and diarrhea with antibiotics -- but to an exponentially more dramatic extent. Your body just couldn’t compensate, and the side effects left you dangerously dehydrated.”

“My liver?” Steve asked quietly.

“It’s working overtime, but your bloodwork and enzyme levels look good. We administered your anti-rejection meds through your IV as soon as you came in, based on the assumption you’d probably lost at least a day’s dosage.”

Steve let out an exhale of relief.

“You have to be honest about your pain and fatigue levels. We take bloodwork before each round, but it only tells us so much. I know you’ve been accustomed to pushing your body to impossible measures in the past but . . . you can’t. Not anymore.”

Steve turned his head away from Danny, his cheeks heating with humiliation. In both Dr. Patterson’s office and the therapist’s office, he had spent weeks grappling with his unrealistic expectations of returning to Hawaii completely whole; the same person Danny had drawn a gun on that first day, in his father’s garage. He still hadn't managed to come to terms with it; not yet. The disappointment and denial was still caught in his throat; a bitterness so tangible he felt that he would choke on it.

He felt Danny’s hand, gentle and warm on his shoulder. “I’ll make sure -- “ Danny stopped short, glancing almost apologetically at Steve. “I’ll try to help him with that.”

“Excellent. And you both have my office number, as well as the on-call number. Don’t hesitate to use either or both.” She reached out and shook Danny’s hand. “It was lovely to meet you, Detective Williams. Commander McGarrett is truly blessed to have you here. And we are, too -- I strongly suspect that once Steve gains a bit of strength back, he’d make a most miserable inpatient.”

“You have no idea,” Danny said. “I shared a hospital room with him. He’s impossible. Really.”

Dr. Patterson laughed as she turned to leave the room. “I’ll send an aide with a wheelchair.”

Steve started to object, but then Danny’s hand was moving, cupping his jaw, rough with several days’ scruff. “Babe, you haven’t taken but a few steps back and forth to the bathroom for a day or so now. And I don’t think I could haul your ass down the hall to the elevator, not with my bad knee, and . . . my shoulders are still a little sore.”

Steve felt his body go tense. Of course. When he’d left, Danny was still visibly bruised and battered; depending on a cane for balance and mobility. It had been a while, months now, but he knew all too well the lingering ache after an ordeal such as Danny had endured. He looked up at Danny, who was still smiling at him, the crinkles around his eyes considerably deeper, his dark blond hair still kissed lighter by the sun, but now also shot through with silver and white. He could still make out the faint marks left on Danny's face from the beating he'd sustained. Lines that once only showed themselves when Danny was fatigued or in pain were now gently etched in place, though it did nothing to mitigate what Steve had slowly come to understand was as much attraction as appreciation.

“Yeah,” Danny sighed. “Aging, right? It’s a bitch.”

Steve rubbed his hand ruefully over his shorn head, and echoed the sigh with one of his own.

*****

He’d leaned on Danny many times before, of course. 

North Korea. Afghanistan. Oahu, coming out of that god-forsaken laundry. Beaten. Bloodied. Bruised. Broken, even.

This time felt different. He was . . . weak. This time, it was his own body that had betrayed him. He was supposed to be learning how to “reframe that thought”, according to his therapist. He hadn’t figured out how to do that, yet. 

Danny’s arm was strong around his waist. No broken ribs to avoid, not this time. No stitches, no concussion. There was no paperwork to file, no BOLOs to issue, no rush to get warrants or review footage. There was just a generic apartment, weeks to fill with waiting, and Danny. 

They made their way to the door, perfectly synchronized movement covering the short distance. Steve was sure that Danny’s shoulder was still tender, but there was -- uncharacteristically -- no complaint as he tucked himself under Steve’s arm. The familiarity of that perfect fit made Steve’s heart ache. 

“I meant it, you know,” he blurted out, fumbling for the keys, “when I said I missed you. I wasn’t trying to get away from you, Danny.”

Danny was still silent. It was unsettling, and Steve felt his stomach knot with tension. He could hear Danny, on the beach, objecting to his best friend leaving him. Had the tables turned? Had he finally managed to push away the one person who’d never left?

“Danny?” He’d welcome a rant about now. But Danny just looked up at him and smiled fondly.

“Okay, I need coffee,” Danny said. He locked the door and tossed the keys into an empty bowl close by. “You too? Kitchen through there?”

He kept a steadying hand on Steve, and allowed him to lead the way to the small but tidy kitchen. 

“I, uh . . . don’t have coffee,” Steve said. “Haven’t been able to keep it down. I have tea?”

Danny shrugged. “I can appreciate a good cuppa. Point me to it, and sit before you fall.”

Steve watched Danny’s movements carefully. He was still favoring his knee; he winced when he reached for the second shelf.

“You’re missing your physical therapy,” Steve said quietly. “To be here with me.”

Danny leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to boil. “I have my exercises and stretches memorized by now. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Steve said. 

Danny turned away, fussing with the tea bags. “Want me to leave?”

Steve closed his eyes and rested his elbows on the table, letting his head drop into his hands. He thought about Montana, about DC. Danny’s presence had anchored him, tethered him to the better parts of his life . . . of himself.

“No,” he said, lifting his head. “I’d very much like you to stay. But Five-0 . . . and there’s nothing here for you Danny, you . . .” His words drifted to a stop. 

“Five-0 is doing fine,” Danny said. He poured the water carefully over the tea bags, his movements as sure and graceful as Steve remembered. He felt a pang of remorse, of what-if, thinking about the restaurant. “And I have stuff to keep me busy, don’t worry.”

“You’ll mother-hen me back to health?” Steve asked.

Danny chuckled, turning back toward Steve with a cup in each hand. “Well, apparently someone needs to. As usual, you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, you goof.”

The familiar banter eased some of the tightness in Steve’s chest. “Thank you for coming.”

“Don’t I always come for you?” Danny placed a cup gently in front of Steve, and sat down across from him. He wrapped his hands around the cup. It was chilly here, compared to Hawaii. 

Steve heard the pain in Danny’s voice, knew, with unfailing certainty, what Danny was going to say -- needed to say -- next.

“I always come for you, Steve, and . . . I’m not going to lie. It hurt, that you couldn’t stay. For me.”

“But that’s just it, Danny,” Steve said. “I couldn’t stay. I . . . couldn’t stay there, use you, depend on you, put you in danger while I tried to put my head on straight, tried to fix the leukemia, I --” he stopped, blinking away the annoying wetness in his eyes. 

“What did you really hope to accomplish, Steve, by keeping us -- me -- in the dark? By coming here, instead of getting treatment, getting therapy, back home? Why was it worth risking taking away our chance to tell you goodbye, if it came to that? And it damn near did -- they were close to calling Mary, that’s how bad it was. So you were sick, seriously sick and . . . what if you hadn’t been able to call for help? Not just me. My kids. You would have left and . . . never come back to us. Never let us say goodbye. Why’d you risk that?”

Danny’s eyes were locked on his, his pupils small in the fading light of the late afternoon, the blue surrounding them so deep, so intense . . . as if he could see straight through Steve and all his bullshit, just like he always had.

Steve took a steadying breath and met Danny’s gaze, unflinching. There was a space between them, a wall; Danny had flown all the way to Japan but he felt further away than he had in all the midnight phone calls and random text messages.

“I love you,” Steve started. They’d said it hundreds of times, over a decade. Sometimes, Steve felt like it was all that needed to be said, to put their friendship, their brotherhood, back on track after a disagreement. It was what it all boiled down to, after all -- it was what mattered. It still was . . . but it was more clear to Steve than ever, just how much he meant that, in every sense of the word.

“I love you, too,” Danny replied, with no hesitation. Sure as the sun rises in the east. Danno loves his kids, and Danno loves Steve.

“I love you like a best friend, a brother,” Steve continued. Danny nodded in agreement. “And . . . beyond that. I realized . . . every thought of family, of future . . . it was always you, Danno. I was trying to get up the nerve to . . . to see if there was any chance, any hope that you felt the same . . . and then, when I got the diagnosis, and then when . . . when I couldn’t manage the -- the PTSD . . . “ he stumbled over saying the word, and Danny reached across the table to grab his hand and squeeze it gently. Steve turned his palm over, linking his fingers with Danny’s, holding on for dear life.

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t begin to ask you to . . . to explore if we could be something even more, when -- when I had absolutely nothing to offer you. I thought, maybe, if I could get the best treatment for the -- the leukemia, the best shot at the most complete recovery possible, and get my head back in the right space, then . . . then I’d have a shot at something. I couldn’t -- Danny, I couldn’t expect you to . . . to love someone so lost. So broken. I wanted to get . . . fixed up, you know? So I’d have something more to offer you than a sick, broken --” he choked on the words, because wasn’t that what he was doing, right this minute?

“Steve. Steven, look at me,” Danny said softly. “I’ve loved you, broken, for years. What makes you think I could stop now? Where’d you get the idea that you can’t be loved -- that you don’t deserve love -- just as you are?”

Steve felt hope bloom warm in his chest . . . or maybe it was in his hand, linked with Danny’s.

“In sickness and in health, you know?” Danny said, smiling at Steve and bringing his other hand up, wrapping both around Steve’s, his thumb rubbing gently over Steve’s knuckles. “Why do you think when you were trying to keep me alive, in that isolation room, all of my thoughts were of us, together, through it all? Till death do us part?”

“Danny,” Steve whispered. “You’re . . . you’re saying wedding vow lines to me right now. Don’t -- if you don’t mean it, please, Danno, don’t . . . “

Danny brought Steve’s hand to his lips and placed a gentle, reverent kiss on his palm. “I mean it, Steve. I love you, and I will always come for you. Just . . . I need you to let me have you. As you are, not as . . . not as your idea of just the best version of you.”

“I’m yours, Danny. I think I have been from the minute you drew a gun on me. It just took me too damn long to figure it out.” His hands were shaking. “What if --”

“Stop,” Danny said. “You’re not the pessimist in this relationship.”

Steve couldn’t help but grin at that.

“You’re exhausted, and I don’t have any sense of what time it is,” Danny said. “Hell, I don’t know what day it is at this point. Let’s . . . let’s just rest for a while, yeah?”

Steve felt a tiny bubble of euphoria, better than any morphine.

“Yeah,” he said, standing up slowly, feeling a smile spread over his face. He pictured the hotel room in DC. He hoped he was right about what came next, because Danny was grinning and still holding his hand, and clearly about to say something --

“You got room for two people in the bed here, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . apparently there will be four chapters, not three. :-)


	4. Chapter 4

Steve woke slowly, drifting for a while in a half-sleep of contentment. The faint morning light persisted, though, and eventually he opened his eyes. Danny was sprawled next to him. He’d discovered, in a decade of shared hotel rooms and frequent “sleep-overs”, as Grace had innocently -- accurately -- called them, that for someone who was such a compact lightning bolt when awake, Danny could take up a remarkable amount of space when sleeping. Like a giant teddy bear. 

Steve felt at liberty to take his fill of the sight of Danny’s body; the sheet shoved low to his hips. It hadn’t been that way in DC at all. They’d shared a bed, and Steve had uncomfortable flashes of incomplete memories; a sense of furtive, desperate touches in the dark, and Danny’s gentle, murmured words of nonsense -- all of it blurred by grief, painkillers, and alcohol. But this, this was all soft light, and peace, and knowing -- finally, God -- that his complicated feelings for Danny had been brilliantly simplified . . . and returned. Maybe there really were such things as miracles.

He was pretty sure that their mutual declarations the day before meant that he was at liberty to touch, too -- not that they’d ever been hands-off in the first place. He let his hand slide gently over Danny’s ribcage, marveling at the lean, defined muscle -- Danny had been doing more than just PT, apparently -- and then traced his fingers lightly over the scars littering Danny’s torso. The long incision from the liver transplant, now faded silver, like his own. The rough, circular scar from the bullet he’d taken in the isolation room, when Steve had been beside himself with fear, hanging on every word from the surgeon and shoving his hand into Danny’s chest. And then finally over the most recent wound, the one that almost took Danny from him completely. It was healing, but still pink. He could still make out the barest remnant of faint bruising on Danny’s ribs, on the underside of his jaw.

Danny clumsily captured Steve’s hand with his own, stilling his movements. 

“Hey,” he said, his voice sleep-roughened, “come’ere.” Barely opening his eyes, he tugged and shifted until he’d gathered Steve’s lanky body against his.

Steve sighed in contentment. “You’re warm,” he mumbled against Danny’s shoulder.

“You’re not. Feet ‘r like ice,” Danny groused, even as he hooked a heel over Steve’s ankles and pulled him closer. 

Steve felt Danny’s lips press briefly against the top of his head. He felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. He wasn’t a vain man, by any means, but the times he’d allowed himself to fantasize about this, about sharing a bed with Danny, he’d imagined himself strong. Virile. Confident. Not like this -- not thin. Weak. Practically bald, for fuck’s sake.

“Danny, I’m sorry, I --”

“Don’t,” Danny said fiercely. His arms tightened around Steve protectively. “Don’t you dare apologize. Unless you want to apologize for scaring the living shit out of me, that you can apologize for.”

Steve chuckled. “I’m sorry, Danno.” He sobered. He was pretty sure -- and he’d had an awful lot of time to think about it, over the last months, to try to remember -- that he did, in fact, owe Danny a serious apology.

“In DC,” he started, hesitantly, “did I --” He stopped, tried again. “Look, I was pretty out of it, especially that first night you were there, and if I said anything or, um, did anything . . . “

Danny was silent for a moment, giving him the space to say more, but he didn’t know where to begin.

“I’m just -- I’m sorry.”

Danny’s fingers were tracing abstract swirls over his ink. It certainly didn’t  _ feel _ like Danny was angry.

“Steve. You were -- you were a wreck. You needed . . . you needed what you needed, okay? I got it. I’d been there, after Matty. It’s -- it’s not part of who we are, where we are now.”

“I didn’t -- I didn’t  _ hurt _ you, did I?” Steve asked, horror gripping him. 

Danny had the audacity to giggle. Steve couldn’t decide if he was relieved or offended. Possibly both.

“Babe, no,” Danny assured him. His voice was still rough and warm, and Steve relaxed against him again, feeling the rumble of Danny’s amusement like a purr. “And that’s definitely not what we’re thinking about today.”

“Hmm. What’re we thinking about today?” He felt a weight of guilt he’d been carrying dissipate, and it left him feeling strangely wrung out. Or maybe that was the near-death experience. His eyes felt heavy, so he closed them.

“Today, we are thinking about pancakes,” Danny said. “And naps. And calling the kids.”

Steve was being pulled back toward sleep. “Gracie and Charlie? Or Tani and Junior . . . “

“Yes,” Danny said, and he chuckled again, and Steve reveled once more in the feel of Danny beside him, surrounding him. “You’re going to sleep a little longer, and then we’re going to spend the day recovering.”

“There’s so many other things I’d rather do,” Steve said plaintively.

Danny chuckled again. “No one ever said we had great timing, babe. Now sleep.”

*****

The next time he woke, the light in the room was stronger, and he was alone in bed. He took a moment to take inventory: nothing hurt, exactly, though his muscles felt shaky; the ever-present headache was dull, not throbbing; he wasn’t nauseated, but he was thirsty. He ran a hand over his face and then propped up on an elbow. A glass of water sat on the bedside table; tiny beads of condensation meandering down to a cloth napkin folded beneath it. He downed most of it in a few gulps, then -- more carefully than he’d like to admit -- managed to get himself upright and shuffle to the bathroom. 

By the time he came out, he could follow the scent of coffee and bacon down the short hall to the kitchen. He leaned against the doorframe, filled with a sense of deep contentment. It was exactly the same scene he’d seen a hundred times: Danny, a coffee mug in one hand, stirring pancake batter with the other.

Exactly the same, and completely, breathtakingly, fantastically different. He padded over to Danny and wrapped his arms around him, inhaling the familiar scent of his shampoo. He nuzzled his cheek against the soft, closely shorn side of Danny’s head.

“Good morning,” he said.

Danny placed his mug carefully on the counter and let the spoon rest in the pancake batter. He turned and looped his arms around Steve’s waist, grinning.

“Yeah? It’s good? You feeling okay?”

Steve was unprepared for the wave of emotion that crashed over him. It had been happening, lately . . . the therapist had explained that after so many decades of repressing, well, everything, now that he was trying to process, it could get messy. And Dr. Patterson had explained that some of the drugs could make him susceptible to mood swings.

And then there was Danny, who he hadn’t even pretended not to miss desperately, here, in his kitchen, in his arms . . .

“Hey,” Danny was murmuring, cupping Steve’s face in his hand. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re good. We’re good.”

And when he’d let himself imagine kissing Danny, the circumstances would be something dramatic -- another close call, another explosion, or maybe even another high-stakes undercover operation -- and it would be earth-shattering. But it was right -- no, it was  _ better _ \-- that it was here, just the two of them, going through a morning routine that was sweetly familiar.

He closed the short distance between them, or maybe Danny did, or maybe they met halfway -- it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Danny, the taste of bitter coffee and sweet sugar -- he’d been sampling the batter again -- and he’d intended a simple, good-morning, hey-isn’t-this-awesome kiss but . . . years of longing crashed over him in another wave. 

“ _ Danny _ ,” he gasped, trying to pull him closer, somehow, despite the fact that he’d already pressed him back against the cabinets.

“I know,” Danny said, his voice rough. “Are you -- I mean, can you, with the --” he waved a hand in the direction of Steve’s prescriptions, lined up tidily next to the sink.

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “I’m --”

“If you say sorry, I’m going to  _ end _ you.”

Steve kissed a line down Danny’s neck, tracing his tongue over the little hollow that would peek out in the early years, when Danny would loosen that god-forsaken tie and drive Steve half mad with confusion and lust. It was as perfect as he’d imagined, and from the hitch in Danny’s breath, he hadn’t been alone in that particular fantasy.

“Wanna find out?” Steve asked, grinning against Danny’s collarbone.

*****

It was nothing like Danny had imagined -- and he had a vivid imagination, thank you, and didn’t hesitate to use it. He’d assumed that they would get to this point sooner rather than later. You don’t put all that heat together, mix it with gunpowder, and not expect an explosion. But then there was Cath, and Melissa, and Lynn, and maybe Rachel . . . and then there was that weird year where they were at each other’s throats -- and the point was, he had imagined it would be positively combustible. It wasn’t.

It was slow, and sweet; their initial sense of urgency quickly giving way to soft, tender exploration -- there were long moments of kissing each other’s scars, both seeking reassurance and marveling that the other was still here, still warm and very much alive. Oh, there were hints that, chemo and jet-lag and recently unconscious and recently tortured status addressed, there would be fireworks. Danny looked forward to it, and he’d told Steve so, after, while they’d showered together, Danny’s hands fussing over Steve’s too-prominent ribcage.

Eventually, towel-dryed and yawning, they made their way back to the kitchen. Steve stopped at the table, pointing to the open laptop, notebook, and books taking up one spot. He'd apparently missed it, earlier, given his . . . distraction.

“You a little too invested in helping Grace with her classes?” Steve asked.

Danny felt an old defensiveness well up. He’d stayed under the radar until late middle school, but by 8th grade, it was obvious: he was short  _ and _ smart -- a horrible combination, just begging for getting shoved in lockers and pushed down stairs. That is, until it became obvious that he was short, smart, and scrappy. 

“What?” Steve asked. Danny couldn’t help but grin. He’d always thought Steve looked positively adorable when he was confused. And it was so rare, the asshole.

“Not Gracie’s classes,” Danny said. He pushed by Steve and went to start a fresh pot of coffee.

Steve poked at the books. “International Accounting Procedure. You going undercover again? You, uh, still have those glasses?”

Danny turned back at that question -- sure enough, Steve was smirking and looking at him sideways, which he’d always suspected but never dared hope was Steve’s attempt at subtle --not-- flirting. And glasses, hunh? He’d wondered.

“I do have glasses, thank you, because I need them for reading -- shut up -- but I’m not going undercover.” Danny took a deep breath. “Remember when I said I had plenty to keep me busy, if I stayed here with you for a while? Yeah. I’m, ah, I’m getting my master’s degree.”

Steve reached out and squeezed Danny’s shoulder. “Danny, that’s fantastic. What -- what are you studying?”

“Forensic accounting. Software, you know, tracks a lot, processes quickly, but . . . there will always have to be a human element to direct the search, know what to look for, so . . . yeah.” 

“Danno, that’s great. I worked with people who did that in Naval Intel, they were amazing. There was this one guy, tracked down a terrorist holding a Mossad agent cooperating with NCIS, did it based on some specific soda he bought and had shipped --”

Danny held up a hand. “Okay, well, I’m not tracking international terrorists yet, but . . . you know, I studied finance and business, and more and more of the criminal element on Oahu has international activity, so, it seemed like a good thing to do, to learn, since . . .” He trailed off. He hadn’t meant to burden Steve with this, yet.

The coffee maker beeped, and he turned and poured two mugs. When he turned back, Steve was sitting at the table, hands folded. He still looked pale, dark circles smudged under his eyes. His cheeks were thinned out. 

“I guess after our exertion we should get into those pancakes, hunh?” Danny said, keeping his tone light and shooting a grin at Steve.

“Danny,” Steve said softly. “Since what?”

Danny sighed and sat down, passing one of the mugs across the table to Steve. “Since I might not be cleared to go back to field duty.”

“For a while?” Steve asked, little wrinkles of consternation between his eyes.

“For a while,” Danny tilted his head from side to side, “for never, not sure.”

Steve’s long arm reached easily across the table, his fingers wrapping around Danny’s forearm. “Danny. Danny, I’m so sorry . . . Daiyu Mei . . . this is on me, on my --”

“Hey, no,” Danny said. He covered Steve’s hand with his own. “It happens eventually. It’s inevitable. No matter how we feel, the same on the inside, the same fire, the same drive . . . two old men on the beach, right? We can’t stop time, Steve.”

Danny watched as a myriad of emotions played over Steve’s features, his ocean blue eyes dampening, moisture glistening on those damnable lashes.

“I’m scared, Danny,” Steve said quietly. “I never . . . I thought I’d go out, you know, sooner rather than later. I -- I didn’t expect to survive hunting down WoFat. I didn’t care, then. But then you . . . and the kids, and . . . I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t have a plan for getting old Danny, until I realized I wanted to, after the radiation poisoning and then . . .”

“Two old men on the beach,” Danny said again, brushing his thumb over Steve’s knuckles, over the white scars criss-crossing the planes of his hand. “There’s no reason to think we can’t have that now. Watch our grandkids play in the water.”

Steve swallowed hard and glanced away. Danny wondered if in this most recent medical work-up, Steve had learned definitively that he couldn’t father children, and filed that away for a tough conversation they’d have to have later.

“Grandkids,” Danny repeated firmly, stretching to reach out and gently turn Steve’s face back to meet his eyes. “God, Steve, don’t you get it? My kids are  _ our kids _ . Hell, remember Grace’s graduation video? The one with more pictures of you than of me? And Charlie, you’ve got to help me raise him, because I’m tired, and that boy has more energy than an orangutan on crack. And Nahale, we’ve got to get him focused, get him through college or trade school -- I still think he’s destined to be a mechanic. And Lord help us, the way we’re going, Junior and Tani are going to have children, and if that’s not a terrifying thought. Joanie, now, you know we’re going to have to put the fear of the Almighty in her boyfriends before too long. Ohana, Steve. What you wanted. What you  _ have _ . It’s there. It’s yours. Hell, you  _ built _ it. You just have to let yourself believe it.”

Steve nodded slowly. “I want to, Danny. I -- I’ll try. That’s what this trip was about. I’m trying.”

“I believe in you,” Danny said, smiling as he repeated Steve’s words back to him. “I believe in you, I believe in us.”

Steve brought Danny’s palm to his lips and kissed it reverently, then looked deeply, intently, into Danny’s eyes.

“I believe I’d like some pancakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you get the Caf-Pow reference.
> 
> This may be the end . . . or there may be an epilogue; either way, rest assured, in this universe Steve and Danny are sitting on the beach, watching the sunset, while a floppy-eared puppy runs circles around some little kids . . .


End file.
